


Don't Give Up On Me

by TheItsyBitsyWriter



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Because Steve should've gone after Bucky, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Bucky Barnes Remembers, Canon Divergence, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Endgame Fucked Me Up, Feels, Fluff, I feel so much, I'm trying to channel my emotions, M/M, Please Don't Hurt Me, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Spoilers, The Winter Soldier - Freeform, also i don't like tony stark, friends - Freeform, i'm an anti, mentioned?, other Avengers - Freeform, other than that no anti-ness, so he won't be making an appearance here, some are present
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2020-05-18 12:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19334767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheItsyBitsyWriter/pseuds/TheItsyBitsyWriter
Summary: The Winter Soldier saves the life of Captain America, and leaves him bleeding on the riverbank of the Potomac. Where does he go after that? What does he do?Well, he finds his way home, back to Steve. Just like it always should have been.(Captain America: The Winter Soldier Fix-It)





	1. I'm Not Going Down That Easily

**Author's Note:**

> So, I was watching CATWS again, and I began to wonder what was going on through Bucky's head when he heard "'cause I'm with you to the end of the line,"? What was going on through his head while he pulled Steve out of the river? What would have happened if he had stayed, if he'd waited to Steve to wake up? What would have happened if Bucky had come to Steve, looking for recovery and shelter? What would have happened if Steve and Bucky were reunited on their own terms?  
> So, here's what happened. Enjoy the lovechild of my curiosity and genuine post-Endgame heartache :)

A soft mechanical whirring noise reached his ears and he listened to it for a minute, tried to place it in his mind, and once he did so, he ignored it, he had other things to focus on— much more important things. He could feel a throb going up his right arm, and he ignored that too. His head and his jaw hurt, but there was nothing he could do for either of those things except ignore them, so he did. His feet, sloshing through the water, hurt as well, but nonetheless, successfully took him to dry ground. The whirring seized the moment he released his left hand’s grip on the Target’s clothes, and he realized it had been coming from his arm— it needed cleaning, it needed tuning. The Soldier stepped back, and stared down at the unmoving Target.

His breath came out in an impatient huff, and with the tip of his boot, he nudged the Target’s ribs. _Move, breathe, anything._ His brain told him he should count the seconds and match them with the Target’s heartbeat, just to know if he was alive, so he did.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten._

A small stream of water trickled out from the side of his target’s mouth, due to his head being tilted off to the side. _Stable_.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six._

The Target’s eyes moved behind his closed lids, and they fluttered helplessly, didn’t open. _Alive_.

_One. Two. Three. Four. Five._

Target gasped and coughed a little, his body convulsed and his head fell to the side. His gut was still bleeding from the gunshot, and was now mixing with the water around him. _Internal bleeding suspected_.

Now there was blood trickling out from the Target’s mouth, mixing with the water. _Internal bleeding confirmed._

Target was stable, he wasn’t currently dying, but he soon would. He could be saved, of course, with some help. So the Soldier clutched his right arm to his chest and began to walk away. He didn’t have a direction, he knew he needed to get away— no, he needed to get his Target help first, and then get away. He needed a direction, still— more than that, the Soldier needed a briefing. His brain was a clean slate, in terms of his next orders, and he needed to be briefed on what to do next.

“ _Dude, Captain America was supposed to be in that building!_ ” the voice reached his ears and a scowl formed on his face. Captain America, yes— his target, the one he’d failed at eliminating. No, the one he’d _chosen_ to spare the life of, and then save the life of. The Soldier paused for a second and pondered on the word: _choice_. His first choice— the first he can think of, anyway… and he _chose_ to do something that was unprompted in all ways. It was his own free will, he saved the life of Captain America, and he _chose_ to do it. He realized something then; he felt satisfied— at the fact that he’d made a choice all by himself, based on his own decisions, and at the fact that he’d chosen to save a life, rather than take one.

Shaking himself, the Soldier looked around for the source of the voice, and found that there was a bridge just ahead of him, and there was a cyclist on the otherwise deserted bridge. He had his cellular device out, and was apparently taking pictures—or recording videos; the Soldier couldn’t tell from the distance—of what remained of the Triskelion with it. The Soldier glanced at the Triskelion and grimaced, it looked worse for wear, and he hoped nobody who wasn’t HYDRA was still inside.

_Help: located._

The Soldier walked quickly, and one minute, twenty seconds later, he was yanking the cyclist away from his bike and had a knife pressed to his throat. “Call for help.”

“Hey man, you can just take whatever you want. Please don’t do anything.” The young man replied, his voice dripping with fear, his hands raised, and the cellular device in them locking down on the face of another young man. “You want cash? I have twenty dollars in my pock—”

“Call an ambulance.” The Solider said, emphasizing his words.

“You can take everything, just please—”

“ _Now_.” The Soldier’s voice dripped venom, and it sounded dangerous, even to his own ears. And the young man immediately nodded, his hands fumbled as he tapped his screen five times.

“Hell—hello, 911? Yes, I need an ambulance— the bridge across the Potomac— the North side of the Triskelion. The emergency—?” He glanced at the Soldier in question and terror.

The Soldier thought for a second, and then replied evenly, “Captain America’s bleeding to death from a gunshot wound to the gut.”

The young man looked aghast, and stunned into silence, but the Soldier pressed the knife into his throat just a little bit more, and he was blurting out those very words into his cellular device. Followed by him stuttering that he wasn’t lying at all, and that yes, this was clearly an emergency. Once the call was dropped, with the information of the ambulance arriving in t-minus two minutes, the Soldier stepped away from the man, and glanced at him.

“Your sweatshirt. Now.” The Soldier gestured towards the man’s horrendous sweatshirt that bore the faces of four men, with the words “Queen Forever” printed on its right and left sleeves, respectively. As an afterthought he added, “ _Please_.”

The young man fumbled with his sweatshirt, but handed it over to the Soldier very quickly nonetheless, and the Soldier took it, with a nod of gratitude. Then he walked to the side of the bridge towards where he’d come from, and searched for a hint of blue through the bushes. He then beckoned the terrified cyclist over and pointed in Captain America’s direction.

“Is that— is that Captain America?” the young man asked, sounding a little awed but still terrified.

“He dies before the ambulance comes, and I kill you slow and painful.” The Soldier simply told him, and the guy nodded quickly in response. With a final glance—a farewell, perhaps? —towards Captain America, and the Soldier was quickly pulling the sweatshirt over his vest, and heading down the bridge towards the forest.

The Soldier pulled the hood over his head and walked quickly and briskly, as if he had somewhere to be in a short amount of time. He was fooling himself, because he’d completed his previous task—get Captain America help—and had since lost his direction, and he still needed a briefing. He’d lost his guns on the helicarrier; he had nothing on him to protect himself, except for a knife— the very knife he'd tried to kill his Target with. He needed more weapons, and more than that, he needed a roof over his head, he was a fugitive at the very moment— running from SHIELD, HYDRA and several Governments of the world. He needed a place to lay low before he decided his next move— or worse.

He distinctly remembered HYDRA had a safe house in Georgetown, where he'd been held some time in the early 90's— he hoped it was still there, because he remembered their weapon cache. The Soldier estimated it would take him about a half hour to get to Georgetown, then he added an additional ten minutes to his trek— he needed to locate a public restroom, because he needed to urinate, but more than that, he needed to get himself a change of clothes— he couldn’t very well walk across DC looking like as suspicious and threatening as he currently did. The Soldier didn’t have any money— not a single dollar to his name, but he had skills… and he was terrifying, he was sure he could get himself a change of clothes. Hell, he’d just gotten himself a horrible sweatshirt off some guy’s back, just by _asking_ — which, in all fairness, he hadn’t exactly _asked_ for.

So if the Winter Soldier wanted a change of outfit before he made it to safety in Georgetown, then he was going to get himself different clothes. But preferably ones without “Queen Forever” written on their sleeves.


	2. I Will Fight For You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky's here, and he's still the center of Steve's universe, and the only thing that matters. So Steve fights for Bucky, because Bucky's always fought for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's the second chapter.  
> I have no idea what the fuck I'm doing, or even what direction this story is headed in.   
> I don't know, please send help because my dumbassery has reached a malevolent and slightly threatening level.  
> Enjoy x

** I Will Fight For You **

_12:25 p.m. Wednesday, November 26 th, 2014._

A quick, panicked glance at the clock, and bright blue eyes rolled upwards, and Steve Rogers groaned audibly. He rolled over in his bed, so he was lying with his face pressed deeply into his pillow. He’d overslept. _Again_. That’s all he seemed to be doing as of late. It had been over a week since Steve was released from the hospital, following— what had been globally labeled as, ‘The Battle at the Triskelion’.

Steve used to be able to not sleep much— he couldn’t, not even if he’d wanted to. But now, after the only battle of his life that he’d refused to fight, it was like he was exhausted. Seventy years worth of exhaustion had taken its toll on him, and all he did these days was sleep. And God bless Sam for not saying a word about it— well, that’s not entirely true, because Sam had a lot of words to say about it. Mostly jokes about his age catching up to him, but that’s all they ever were: jokes. Sam had not said a single spiteful word to Steve about his unhealthy sleeping habits, and about Steve taking up residence in Sam’s house, when Steve was perfectly capable of finding and affording (seventy years worth of Army pension did wonders for his bank balance) a new place for himself. On the contrary, Sam had shut Steve right up when he’d first talked about moving out soon, and that was a week ago, shortly after he’d been discharged from the hospital. Sam had said he was more than happy having Steve as a housemate, because Steve proved to be an excellent housemate: he cooked sometimes, and he cleaned, and he always did the laundry— granted, he never did the dishes, and always left them for Sam, but he was still good to have around— or at least that’s what Sam said.

Thinking of Sam had Steve sitting up in bed— albeit with a soft grunt, his back muscles ached when he moved. It was half past twelve, which meant Sam would be home from work in one and a half hours. It was only the decent thing to do for Steve to have lunch ready by the time Sam got home. Natasha—who was in Albany the last time Steve had talked to her—had once said that Steve was like the perfect housewife for Sam.

The house Sam lived in was a beautiful double-storey, brown-brick, three-thousand-square-feet home in Stone Ridge, Virginia, and Steve had immediately loved his house as soon as he’d gotten a chance to really _see_ it. It had a gorgeous view of the forest surrounding the back of the suburbs.  And the room Sam had given to Steve was on the topmost floor and had a nice, big window that overlooked the aforementioned forest— it was a really gorgeous view, but Steve was always too in over his head to have ever paid much attention to it.

Stretching his arms above his head, Steve groaned loudly. As he lowered his arms, his eyes travelled down to his left, towards where his shield was sitting right next to his bed, propped against the side table. A frown settled on his face and his fingers reached forward the graze against the cool metal— it was always there; always within reach, but Steve hadn’t used it, not since he’d dropped it from the helicarrier, when he’d refused to fight against the Soldier. He didn’t even know how they’d found it amidst all the rubble, but one day Tony had just given it to him: fixed and unbroken, back in his hands. He shook his head and stood, and made a short trip to the bathroom, where he took a bracing, cold shower and was down the stairs in less than fifteen minutes, all ready for the day.

In the past week or so, he’d formed a sort of routine; he went for a short five-mile run first thing every morning, and then ate a light breakfast—usually consisting of cereal and fruit—before he got about to the task of making lunch for Sam.

This morning was no different as he slid his brand-new phone into the front pocket of his joggers, and went looking for his set of keys. Sam had bought the phone for him last week, saying: “You’re gonna need this, to talk to Nat and Fury, and besides you’re living in 2014, and in this time period: only three year olds don’t have phones.” And Steve had agreed. He was very much happy with his small iPhone4, but it was taken by Nick Fury and then destroyed, and Sam had forcibly gotten him an iPhone6 Plus, because apparently people in 2014 judged others based on what cellular devices they had. Steve found his house keys on the little table Sam had situated by the door, and wrenched it open.

Steve went for his usual jog around the neighborhood park. Running five miles usually took him about fifteen minutes, and he knew it was kind of daunting seeing him running around at the speed of lightning, but he always had other things to do, and he truly stopped caring what the modern world thought of him, a long time ago. That morning, Steve ran an extra mile and was just five minutes behind schedule when he rounded the corner onto Sam’s street. The lady that lived across the road from Sam, who had a two-year old son, waved at him from where she was manhandling her toddler into a stroller, and Steve waved back. Neal from down the street was out walking his dog, and nodded at Steve, as Steve ran past him.

“Beautiful day, isn’t it Captain Rogers?” he asked, and Steve had no choice but to stop for him.

“Yes, very sunny.” Steve replied, turning back around to face Larry and leaned down to pet Maximus, Neal’s big German shepherd. He smiled at the dog and then straightened, “How’s your mother doing, Neal?”

They spent a good ten minutes chatting about Neal’s mother, Joanna— who Steve knew only by association with Sam, and her reclining health, and Steve parted ways with Neal with a promise to visit his mother soon. He then continued his jog back home. He was fifteen minutes behind schedule at this point, which meant that the spaghetti and meatballs meal he was planning was going to have to be replaced with takeout. Steve was in the mood for a Subway sandwich, but he didn’t know what Sam would want. So he made a mental note to call Sam soon as he got home, and then call the local Subway for a home delivery.

He reached the house much quicker than he’d expected due to having gotten lost in his thoughts, and fumbled his pockets for his keys. The house was silent, as he’d expected it, and he waited a beat before entering— he’d grown wary of too-silent places, always assumed there was a threat lurking just around the corner.

Shaking his head, Steve entered the house and locked the door behind him. Placing the keys absently on the table, he untied his running shoes and placed them neatly against the wall— Sam hated it when shoes were strewn left and right. As he walked through the house and towards the staircase, he considered taking a shower, but then decided against it. He wasn’t sweating—he’d stopped sweating after the serum—and he didn’t even smell bad, and he’d taken a shower that very morning— just because water was no longer rationed, didn’t mean he was allowed to waste it.

Steve was too lost in his thoughts, and it wasn’t until he had reached the closed door of his own room, that he realized something was wrong in the house. No, not wrong— but something was amiss in the air— like something that wasn’t supposed to be there had come knocking. His hands tightened into fists as he realized somebody was in the house. His shield was still inside his bedroom, and he didn’t have a weapon— in fact, he had nothing to protect himself with in the face of an attack. Natasha was right when she sometimes called him “Steven Stupid Rogers”. He didn’t know where Sam kept his guns, he’d never felt the need to ask, but he knew that Sam kept a baseball bat that was made of solid steel, against the inner wall of his closet. So quickly and quietly, Steve crossed the landing over to Sam’s room, and found the door clocked— God damn Sam, and his paranoia that Steve was going to break into his room and find all his secrets, he had no intention of doing that. Gritting his teeth, Steve turned around and looked for anything that could be used as a weapon, and in the end approached his room with an empty porcelain vase.

Then he stopped for a moment and listened for movements in his room, and found none, so he figured that whoever was in the house was not in his room. Quietly, he turned the handle, and pushed the door open. He looked around the room before he entered it and his eyes scanned the empty, dark space. He darted forward quickly and grabbed his shield from its spot and strapped it to his arm, and flicked on the lamp on the bedside table. The intruder must either be downstairs or gone by the time, so he turned quickly and then stopped; out of the corner of his eye he’d caught movement in the darkest corner of his room. Clenching his jaw and holding his shield in front of him, he turned in that direction and focused his gaze.

There was a figure standing in the shadowy corner, concealed by his dark clothes matching the darkness of the closed blinds on the window— and Steve distinctly remembered leaving them open that morning. Then the figure shifted and the light from the table lamp caught on his arm and something shone briefly in the dark. Metal.

“Bucky.” Steve breathed out, his body went rigid and his arm dropped by his side— which was very stupid indeed, because for all he knew, it was the Winter Soldier, not his Bucky. But his words were met not by a jerk of movement, or a bullet, or violence; instead they were met by complete and utter silence.

Steve waited patiently, didn’t press on and didn’t pull back either, he simply waited. And through his intent listening, he caught a sharp exhale from the corner of the room, followed a few seconds later by the figure moving forward. Bucky stepped out into the light coming from the lamp, and if Steve hadn’t been paralyzed with shock, his knees would’ve given out; because Bucky looked… _terrible_. He looked worse than he looked two weeks ago: his face was covered in an unruly beard and there was a nasty bruise blooming on his left cheekbone, his cheeks were sunken in, and there were very prominent dark circles under his eyes. He looked exhausted and hollow— like the ghost of the shell of a man. He walked forward until he was standing in the middle of the room, a few long steps away from Steve.

And then the staring began: Bucky stared at the floor besides Steve’s feet, and Steve stared at… everything: Bucky’s face, his bruises, his unruly hair, his dirty clothes, and his too-small shoes. Steve felt like crying out loud, but he did no such thing. He knew better than to alarm Bucky— he’d attended enough support group meetings at the VA to know how to spot someone who was just holding on to their sanity by a very thin thread… and Bucky currently looked like the poster-boy for it.

Then it was Bucky who spoke, and when he did, his voice came out deep, scratchy and awfully hollow. “You found your shield.”

Steve looked down, as if needing confirmation for Bucky’s words and then nodded slowly. Just go with the flow, Steven. “Yeah, no… I didn’t. Tony did.”

Bucky looked up at that, and frowned. And Steve mentally slapped himself across the face because _of course_. Bucky didn’t know who Tony was— oh hell; Steve was willing to bet he didn’t even know who Sam was, or Natasha. And in a moment of indecisiveness, he unstrapped the shield from his arm and dropped it on the bed— he refused to acknowledge how stupid that action was, because Bucky hadn’t killed him yet. Then he looked back up at Bucky, and found that he was being stared at very hard. But Bucky wore an unfathomable expression, Steve couldn’t read it very well, but it looked like a mixture of confusion and disbelief.

So Steve cleared his throat and asked, “Do you know who I am?”

Bucky’s expression changed again. He was thinking now, and it broke Steve’s heart. Then he said, “Your ma’s name is Sarah… you used to wear newspapers in your shoes. You’re Steve Rogers.”

Steve smiled at that. “Yeah, yeah that’s right… do you know who you are?” At that, Bucky went still: his eyes widened and he stared at the ground with an open mouth, like he was waiting for some unseen force to tell him the answer to that question. And when it didn’t come a few minutes later, Steve answered for him instead. “Your name is James Buchanan Barnes; you’re a Veteran of World War II, you prefer being called _Bucky_ because that’s what I called you first, and… you are my best friend, my whole world.”

A minute of silence followed his words, and then Bucky was walking towards him, slow and steady, and Steve wondered if he’d said something wrong, but then Bucky was standing just a breath away from him. So Steve lost control and slowly raised his arms before wrapping them around Bucky, who—after a moment—lowered his head onto Steve’s shoulder, his breath ghosting the side of Steve’s neck. His arms were slow to wrap around Steve’s waist, but they did, and finally Steve exhaled. He rested his cheek on top of Bucky’s head and breathed shakily, his arms tight around Bucky’s shoulders.

“I missed you, Buck.”

Bucky nodded slowly, didn’t reply and it should’ve broken Steve’s heart again, but Steve had Bucky in his arms and all was right in the world. But then Bucky was shifting and Steve quickly released his grip around Bucky, and it took the brunette only a minute to pull away and stagger backwards, putting some distance between himself and Steve.

“Are you alright, Bucky?” Bucky only gave him a soft nod, and his eyes diverted away from Steve’s face, so Steve changed tactics, and focused on one of the few things he liked about the modern world: food. “Are you hungry? Do you want something to drink?”

Bucky didn’t reply to that, but his shoulder jerked, so Steve quickly turned around, and reached towards his bedside table, where he always kept a bottle of water before going to sleep. He grabbed it and extended it towards Bucky. “Here, drink up. I’ll see what’s in the fridge downstairs.”

Bucky’s body tensed as he took the bottle from Steve, and only stared at it. As if he didn’t understand what to do with it. Steve didn’t push for anything, merely watched Bucky staring holes into the bottle. Then he asked very slowly, “Is this a test?”

“What? No, Buck, it’s… it’s not a test. It’s for you to drink, you look thirsty.”

Bucky still looked unsure, but then he glanced up at Steve and seemingly made his mind up, and slowly uncapped the bottle and brought it to his mouth. He took a tentative sip and then looked back at Steve, as if waiting for punishment to be dealt, but Steve only looked back at him with an encouraging smile. So he brought the bottle back up to his mouth and finished the whole one liter bottle in forty-five seconds, and this actually broke Steve’s heart. Bucky wasn’t just thirsty, he was dehydrated. Steve’s brain caught up to him quicker than he’d anticipated; if Bucky was this parched, then it meant he was hungry too… God, how long had it been since he’d last had something to eat? Steve realized he didn’t really want to know the answer to that, so instead he shook his head.

“I’ll bring you something to eat.” He told Bucky and didn’t wait for a reply, he knew he wouldn’t get one, so instead he walked towards the door and yanked it open— he was just so furious… at himself, at the world, at Nick Fury, at Natasha, at everything that moved. He walked fast, and reached the staircase in less than ten seconds, and only then realized that Bucky was following him, but he didn’t say anything— didn’t trust himself to. Who knew what would come out of his mouth when he was this angry?

His climbed down the staircase as quickly as he could and headed straight towards the kitchen. Bucky followed him down the stairs but stopped in the middle of them, one hand hovering over his right pocket— Steve assumed he had a weapon in there. But Steve didn’t care, he was intent on getting some food into Bucky, and he didn’t care if Bucky stabbed him. He found last night’s leftover pizza in the fridge and quickly took out the box, and counted six slices still inside. He put all six of them on a plate and popped it into the microwave to heat up, and poked his head out of the kitchen to find Bucky still standing in the middle of the staircase.

Steve watched him for two minutes; watched how Bucky shifted foot every couple of seconds, as if he was uncomfortable or unsure. So he said, “Buck, you can go back up if you want. I’ll be up in a second.”

The microwave beeped and Steve turned to get the pizza out of the microwave, and when he went to look out of the kitchen, Bucky was gone. So Steve quickly grabbed three bottles of water from the counter and the plate, and he was climbing back up the stairs in less than three minutes. On the top of the staircase, he was surprised to find Bucky standing in the doorway of the room, looking expectantly at the staircase, and not inside the room.

“Is something wrong?” Steve asked, walking past him into the room and placing the plate on the bed, and the bottles on the table.

“You didn’t tell me to go in.” Bucky replied, following Steve into the room.

“I didn’t tell you to— Buck, I’m not your handler. I don’t control you,” he said, turning to face Bucky, and reaching a hand out towards him but not touching him entirely— he was giving Bucky the option of drawing close or pulling away, and Bucky did neither, he stood exactly where he was, so Steve dropped his hand. “You’re my best friend, Buck, I don’t control you. I don’t give you orders. I’m your friend.” Bucky watched him intently, and then glanced at the food, so Steve pointed him forward. “Go ahead, Buck, it’s for you.”

A little unsurely, Bucky walked towards the bed and sat down on it before he picked a slice from the plate and brought it towards his mouth. He glanced up at Steve who was watching him with his arms crossed, and his mouth pursed— he was still angry; a look of disbelief and terror crossed Bucky’s face and his hand holding the pizza began to lower, so Steve quickly readjusted his face into a smile. “I meant it, Bucky, it’s for you. You can choose to eat it or not, nobody is gonna say anything to you.”

As if that was all the confirmation Bucky needed, he brought the pizza to his mouth and bit it straight in half. Steve watched him wolf down three of the slices in less than five minutes, and did not utter a single syllable.

He was trying his damnedest to contain his rage, and he was trying not to sob. Both would have become infinitely difficult if he’d tried to speak, and he knew he would burst into tear and hug Bucky to his chest if he looked at Bucky any longer, so he turned around and headed towards his closet. At random, he grabbed a t-shirt, a pair of sweatpants, and his favorite zip-up sweatshirt. Bucky needed a shower, possibly more food, a change of clothes, definitely some sleep, perhaps a haircut, and a shave— but Steve didn’t know if he could trust him with the razor Steve had, it was not one of those safety razors; it was a straight razor, the old-fashioned kind. After a second thought, Steve turned towards his dresser, and dug through until he found a brand-new pair of warm socks. It was already so cold and Bucky wasn’t wearing anything that was acceptable for a winter’s morning.

When Steve turned around, Bucky had eaten all six of the pizza slices and emptied one a half water bottles, and Steve smiled sadly. He sniffed softly and cleared his throat, before gesturing towards the en-suite bathroom. “The bathroom’s right through there, Buck.”

“Bathroom?” Bucky asked, his voice better than before.

“Yeah, you know… in case you want to take a hot bath, or whatever you feel like doing.”

“Should… should I take a bath?”

“If you _want_ to, Buck. It’s up to you.”

Bucky was silent for a long minute, then he ducked his head— it seemed as if he couldn’t bear to meet Steve’s eyes. It was another long stretch of silence before he asked very slowly and quietly, “Am I allowed to?”

And Steve would have absolutely burst into tears at that very moment, only if he wasn’t so fucking furious. “ _Yes_ , Buck, _of course_ you’re allowed to. You’re allowed to do whatever the fuck you want, whenever you want. You’re a _person_ , Bucky; you’re not a— a robot. Jesus fuck, I—” and before Steve could get more words out, his throat closed up and his breathing hitched, so he hid his face in both hands and rubbed at his eyes, smudging the tears right where they fell.

“I’m sorry.” Bucky said quickly, his voice just this side of alarmed. “I didn’t— I’m— Please don’t— I’m… so sorry.”

Steve’s chest heaved up and down with his irregular breathing, “What— you? _You’re_ sorry? What the hell are you sorry for, Buck? No, you have _nothing_ to apologize for. Some people need to be sorry, and they _will_ be, I will _make_ them be sorry for their crimes. But it’s not you, Buck, it’ll never be you.”

Bucky watched Steve with keen eyes, his gaze flickering between Steve’s face at his chest, then his mouth pulled downwards in a frown. “I did shoot you, and that I am sorry for.”

At that, Steve let out an unattractive snort. “That wasn’t you, Buck, that was the Soldier— not you. You’d never shoot me.”

“My fingers pulled the trigger.”

“Yes, they were your fingers… that you weren’t controlling— not entirely.”

Bucky frowned in thought, then his mouth quirked upwards in a slight smirk, “You sound like an apologist.”

Steve smiled at that, and let out a chuckle. “Maybe I am a Bucky Barnes apologist, and I am not sorry for that, I never will be.”

Bucky looked up at Steve’s face and for the first time in seventy years, Steve saw him smile— it was a tiny one, just the ghost of a smile, but it was there, and it birthed hope into Steve’s heart and soul. So Steve smiled back at him, all teeth and crinkled eyes. Then he cleared his throat and sniffed loudly,  “The shower offer is still there, if you want it. And then you can get some sleep— you look like you need it.”

Bucky’s body tensed immediately and the ghost of the smile vanished, he nodded curtly and began walking towards the bathroom Steve had pointed at earlier. Steve followed him to the bathroom and explained to him how the shower worked and opened the cabinet to show him the bottles of shampoo, body wash, conditioner, shaving foam, and liquid soap. Bucky was looking at the impressive bathroom with nothing short of wonder in his eyes, and Steve wondered if it was the first time in his life that he was seeing those things. The thought pained him so he shook his head, and told Bucky he’d leave the clothes out for him on the counter next to the sink, and stepped out of the bathroom. He returned shortly and placed the clothes he’d picked out earlier on the counter, and placed a clean towel on top of them, before he looked at Bucky, who was still standing in the middle of the bathroom in his dirty clothes—Steve only then noticed the “Queen” sweatshirt and wondered where Bucky had found such an atrocious article of clothing—looking clueless for all the world.

“What’s wrong, Buck?”

“Are all of these… for me?” He was looking at soaps and the other bottles.

Steve nodded softly, “Everything that’s mine is for you from now on, I promise you. You do whatever you want; you can take and use anything.”

“And that’s allowed?”

“Bucky, listen to me, from now on, you’re a free man. No one is going to control you, and you need absolutely no one’s permission to go about your basic needs.” Steve said, reaching a hand towards Bucky, expecting nothing. He was infinitely surprised when Bucky moved into his touch, pushing his arm into Steve’s hand, allowing him to softly grip it and rub. “I don’t own you— nobody does, you own yourself from now on. Do you understand?” Bucky nodded so Steve smiled. “Alright, then I’ll— I’ll leave you to it.”

Steve stepped out of the bathroom just as Bucky began to take off his clothes, and shut the door behind him. For a minute, he rested his back against the door and breathed deeply. His anger was still rolling off him in waves, and he was doing all he could to contain it. There was no point in losing his shit when Bucky needed him to be strong. Instead, he leaned up off the door and headed towards the door of the bedroom, Bucky would have liked more food, so Steve headed for the kitchen, and as quickly as he could, made four peanut butter sandwiches, three for Bucky, and one for himself.

By the time he came back upstairs with the plate of sandwiches, Bucky was standing in the middle of the bedroom, freshly showered and smelling of pinecones. And suddenly, to Steve, he looked just as beautiful as he did on the morning of his shipping out to England; all showered, his wet hair slicked back, the hoodie hanging open, revealing the grey t-shirt stretched tightly over his broad chest. Steve smiled at Bucky, and forced himself to move forward into the room— there was time to have a breakdown about Bucky’s beauty, but right now as not it.

“Brought you a sandwich.” Steve showed Bucky the plate and placed it on the bed, he picked his sandwich up of the top of the pile and stood back. Bucky slowly walked forward and sat down on the bed. “Apparently peanut butter’s supposed to induce sleep, so you can rest while being full.”

Bucky tensed again, and Steve wondered why that was, but he didn’t ask— didn’t want to pressure or smother Bucky with too many questions. Steve silently ate his own sandwich and then looked through the drawers of his bedside table  for absolutely nothing while Bucky finished his sandwiches, and then— much to Steve’s delight, drank half of a water bottle without any prompting from Steve. But when he finished his sandwiches, Bucky stood up and stepped away from the bed, as if waiting for instructions.

Steve looked up at him in confusion, before standing and coming closer to him, “Buck? What’s wrong?”

Bucky looked confused, “You said I was supposed to sleep.”

“Yeah, because you look exhausted, and in need of a good night’s sleep. But what are you doing up off the bed? That’s where you’re supposed to sleep, Buck.”

Bucky’s expression changed, and became even more confused. “I’m not going in cryo?”

Steve exhaled sharply and slowly raised one hand to Bucky’s face, and gently let it cup his cheek. “No, Buck. You’re not going in cryo, not now, not ever again. You’re going to sleep naturally, on your own terms, in a bed with a blanket and a pillow. I swear to you, Buck, no one’s ever putting you through pain again, not while I’m still breathing. I promise.”

Suddenly there were tears in Bucky’s eyes and they fell when he blinked. His mouth was slack and his expression was beyond relieved. He moved into Steve’s arms, and rested his cheek against Steve’s shoulder, his arms wrapping around Steve’s waist quicker than before. He whispered, “Thank you. I hated it… it always hurt too much. Please don’t let me go back.”

Steve tightened his grip around Bucky’s shoulders. “No, Buck, I won’t. Never. You don’t need to think about that right now. Just go to sleep.”

Bucky nodded and detached himself from Steve, who then helped him get into bed. Steve arranged the pillows, brought the blanket over Bucky, and tucked the sides in. But when Steve was about to go and sit into the armchair in the corner of the room, Bucky held tightly onto his arm and scooted over a little bit, so Steve silently toed off his shoes and lowered himself on top of the blanket, and sat with his back pressed to headboard.

Bucky watched him with earnest eyes from under the wet strands of his hair, and slowly released his grip around Steve’s arm. Steve looked back at him with a soft smile, and brought his fingers up to Bucky’s hair and gently began to pull the strands away, and Bucky leaned into the touch. If there was ever something Steve was good at, it was getting with the program, so he began to softly rub his fingers through Bucky’s hair. And it was only a short amount of time before Bucky fell asleep, his flesh hand poking out of the blanket and touching Steve’s thigh, and metal arm curled around his own abdomen under the blanket.

For a long time, Steve had been angry, but after seeing Bucky that day, he’d become furious. At HYDRA, at Shield, at Fury, at Natasha, and even at Peggy Carter— because HYDRA had ripped his best friend into shreds and sewn him back into a monster of their own, but the rest were supposed to find Bucky, to help him. Fury and Natasha were supposed to be looking around for Bucky at the very moment, but Peggy should’ve saved him a long time ago, even after Steve had taken the _Valkyrie_ for a nosedive. He was so furious, but for now, he shoved his anger aside; because Bucky was here. He was right next to him: properly fed, hydrated, clean, warm, and _safe_. For now Steve’s fury would have to be put aside because he had Bucky now, and that was all that mattered to Steve.

Because when Bucky was with Steve, all was suddenly right in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the words of the great Chrissy Teigen. "I am so stupid and so tired please stop expecting things from me."  
> I know Sam didn't live in Virginia, but I liked this one house I saw and I could just imagine BuckySteve chilling in the basement theater :)  
> I hope you enjoyed this chappy :) x

**Author's Note:**

> So, my sister is a complete bitch, and she said to me, "Hey, you like Andy Grammer, right?" And I was like "Uh, duh? Who doesn't?" And she went, "Okay, great, here's a song of his, listen to it. Oh, and imagine Stucky while you're listening to it. Have fun!"  
> So long story short, I had a breakdown while listening to the song because it applies to Stucky very well and makes me cry every time, because Stucky!  
> But my sister's absolute monstrous act inspired me with this fic, so the chapter titles will be based on the lyrics, and you'll see the inspiration in the chapters :) Do give the song a listen, it's really good. ("Don't Give Up On Me," by Andy Grammer)  
> Anyways, I hope you guys enjoyed the first chapter :) More will come soon (I hope).


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